


Territorial

by WahlBuilder



Category: Mars: War Logs
Genre: Gangs, Gen, Sports
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-02
Updated: 2018-12-02
Packaged: 2019-09-05 17:22:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16815103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WahlBuilder/pseuds/WahlBuilder
Summary: The Sand is excited for a fight between gangs, but it's not a fight with blood.





	Territorial

The streets of the Sand are practically vibrating with anticipation. It is not a public holiday, though it might well be for the aroma of sweetmeats and spices and heavy festive food; for the bursts of laughter and occasional dancing; for the general air of giddiness and excitement. It is not someone’s naming ceremony, celebrated by the whole neighbourhood. But it is an event for the Sand nonetheless. a sufficiently large area is cleaned, and markings are placed where they should be. Spectators have already gathered; street vendors are already brewing tea and cocoa, hot and spicy and thick.

Anyone venturing into the Sand often enough would notice, with no small amount of curiosity, members of all primary gangs in the crowd: the Murmurs, the Fortune Alley gang, the Hooks, the Iron Chains. All of them conversing quite amiably, exchanging harmless taunts and sharing caramel and buns. Nobody trying to kill anyone. An attentive observer would also recognise in a group of yellow-clad young people yet another gang, the Cheekbones (naturally, by their scars on said area of the face). Some of them are wearing helmets, and padding on their shoulders and legs; some are stretching or swinging bats; some are exchanging jokes with the crowd and among each other. Their chief, whom the knowledgeable guest would identify as ‘The Rough’ Festivity, his form nearly square and heavy like that of a mole’s, is tossing up and catching a small red ball.

Across them the crowd erupts into cheers and parts for another group, dressed in blues, and, like the Cheekbones, wearing protection, swinging ornately-painted bats. Their uniforms are cleaner than their adversaries’, but no less used. They, too, exchange taunts with the crowd as they go to the field—all of them young women of various builds. Their chief and captain is the famous Charity. She goes across the field just as Festivity moves towards her, and the crowd falls quiet as the captains of the teams shake hands and exchange the ritual insults without which no game is truly a game. As they go, both teams join their captains in playful taunts, the crowd cheering at the wittiest of them. At last the well of comebacks goes dry, and the captains circle the field to check the baskets, batters, and balls, red and yellow. Umpires, dressed in helmets and black jackets, and chosen from several other gangs, do the checks, too.

The signal goes up, and the noise goes down.

The game that will decide the fate of contested territories is on.


End file.
